


Been Too Long at the Fair

by apple_pi



Category: House
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-26
Updated: 2009-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:52:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson was in House's tub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Been Too Long at the Fair

**Author's Note:**

> Not my characters, not my world, all my lies. My first House fic; be gentle with me. Messy wet kisses to veronamay, who beta'd this and was the perfect Jeeves to my rather hapless Wooster. Title from Bonnie Raitt – not, oh god not, Barbra Streisand. First-season House and Wilson.

Wilson was in House's tub.

"You're in my tub," House said. He hung his cane over the towel rack; rinsed his hands under the tap and turned away to pee.

Wilson nodded and lifted his left hand – the one holding a bottle – and said, "And I'm drinking your beer, too."

House finished and zipped up; he washed his hands again and sat down on the closed toilet seat, stretching his right leg out. "It's okay, I bought it with the twenty bucks I won off you last week."

"I should've known Cuddy couldn't pass up a chance to lecture you," Wilson said. He leaned his head back against the tile and closed his eyes.

"Enjoy the beer," House said. He sat where he was for a minute or three, listening to the faucet drip into the full tub and thinking about another Vicodin. "Well," he said, mostly to himself, and levered himself up again. He limped out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, where he slowly undressed: jacket shoes socks pants shirt. He pulled a t-shirt over his head, rotating his left shoulder to loosen it; eased a pair of jogging pants over his thigh and stood, swaying, to tug the elastic snug around his waist. Damn damned Wilson anyway. He'd walk around in his boxers if he were alone.

In the kitchen he pulled another beer out of the fridge and called for Thai. He downed his fourth pill of the day with the first pull from the bottle and wandered into the living room. There was nothing on television, and Wilson was quiet in the tub. House wondered if he'd fallen asleep.

When the Thai came House paid the delivery boy and took the food into the kitchen. He sat down and scooped out two platefuls of pad khing, rice on the bottom and gingery chicken on top. He didn't bother with chopsticks, just stuck a fork into each mound of food and left the plates sitting on the bar as he walked back toward the bathroom.

"Food," he called ahead of himself, and he found Wilson still stretched out in the water with his eyes closed. The beer bottle was empty, set aside on the ledge of the tub, and House poked Wilson in the skull with the rubber-tipped end of his cane. "C'mon," he said. "Get the hell out of my tub."

"I don't wanna," Wilson replied, but even he must have realized how childish it sounded, because he opened his eyes and grinned – as much as he ever did, that contained little smirk that kept House from wanting to strangle him most of the time. "It's very comfortable in here," he added.

"It's where I do most of my self-abuse," House said, and watched Wilson's eyes widen slightly and then narrow again. "Come on, I got Thai."

"I don't blame you," Wilson said, but he sat up and leaned forward to pull the plug, water sheeting off his back and chest and shoulders. His hair was stuck to his forehead and neck, flat and damp from the steam. House stepped back awkwardly, making room as Wilson stood up. House looked – he always looked now, he couldn't seem to help it – at Wilson's legs. They were nice.

He turned away and went back to the kitchen, and by the time Wilson arrived (wearing a pair of too-long running shorts and an undershirt), House was a quarter of the way through his first helping. "Get me another one," he said when Wilson opened the refrigerator, and Wilson just nodded.

They ate in silence, mostly. "Did Cuddy tell you about the new study Adams is doing?" Wilson asked, and House nodded. "You should try to get that patient –"

"I already did." House belched and felt the Vicodin starting to soften things a little. "She got into the study."

"Good."

They finished eating; Wilson stuck the plates in the dishwasher and got out another beer. "Four beers? Isn't it a school night, Wilson?" House said, hobbling into the living room again. He sat on the sofa and propped his leg on the ottoman, groaning a little.

"Three. You've seen me drink three beers." Wilson followed him in, his face giving nothing away, though the set of his shoulders might, and – House looked at him closely – his hand, tight on the brown glass, definitely did.

"But there were nine in my fridge this morning and only seven when I got out my first. Ergo, you drank another one before the one in the tub." House picked up the remote and settled back without turning on the television again.

"You're so annoying," Wilson said. He sank into the recliner that House didn't use anymore and looked at the television.

House gave him the puppy-dog eyes. "Gee, Jimmy, do you want to talk about it?"

Wilson turned his head and eyed him. "Bite me."

"Possibly." House waved one hand negligently in the air. "Later, though. I just thought since you obviously needed some _you_ time in my tub, either the sex change hormones finally kicked in, or else... something else." He dropped the sarcasm on the last two words... he thought. He couldn't always tell; luckily he was pretty sure Wilson would get it either way.

"I'm fine," Wilson said. "I think there's something involving chesty women and see-through plot lines on tonight." He looked pointedly back at the TV.

House shrugged and thumbed the power button.

 

By eleven Wilson was snoring quietly on the recliner, beer number five going flat on the side table beside him. House turned off the TV and regarded his sleeping friend as he reached for the bottle of pills on the coffee table. "Go home," House said loudly, and Wilson opened his eyes blearily.

"Can I stay here?" he said.

House looked away. "Shouldn't you at least call?" He popped the lid on the bottle and tossed back a tablet.

He heard the chair creak as Wilson kicked at the footrest to retract it and stood. "No," was all he said, though, and he didn't offer to help House into the bedroom; he just walked away toward the back of the apartment.

House checked the front door and followed, moving slowly. By the time he'd pissed and washed his hands, Wilson was already curled under his comforter, back to House. "I usually use that pillow to prop my leg," House pointed out, and Wilson snorted softly.

"You can use me, instead," he said to the wall, and House pulled off the t-shirt and track pants and eased himself into bed.

Wilson's breathing was steady and slow, but he was tense beside House, his bare back hunched away, stiff and contained. "C'mere, then," House said, and he couldn't help the fact that his voice still went gentle with Wilson, any more than he could help the sigh as he hooked his leg over Wilson's thighs when he turned over, toward House. "Not bad," House said, as though considering it, and Wilson was looking at him, his eyes dark in the dark room, mouth a straight thin line.

"I'm fine," Wilson said.

"I didn't ask."

Wilson shrugged one shoulder. "You don't, generally."

House was very still. "Not my style."

Wilson pursed his lips, his eyebrows caught somewhere between rueful and amused. "No, I guess not." His hands were quiet between them, tucked primly against his own chest. "Anyway." His eyes lowered, and House felt the familiar stirring of attraction and conflict: heat, anyway, one kind or another. "You want me to...?" Wilson didn't look up again; he kept his eyes firmly on House's mouth, or neck, or wherever.

"Yeah," House said. "I do." He shook his head slightly. "I mean, well. Yes." He smirked, but Wilson still didn't look up to see it.

Wilson's hand slid down over House's chest and belly, and he shifted slightly beneath House's leg, moving back to give himself room. He didn't speak as his fingers slipped under the elastic of House's boxers, and House didn't either, not even when Wilson's fingers curled around his cock. He sighed again, though, and bent his head forward, putting his forehead against Wilson's. "All right?" Wilson asked, and House murmured assent.

Wilson was quick and neat about this, just like everything else; his hand moved with certainty until House was hard, his erection pushing out against the thin cotton of the shorts. "Lay back," Wilson said, and House did, rolling onto his back and helping Wilson push his boxers down, hissing slightly as he was jostled. "Sorry." Wilson sounded perfunctory at best, but House didn't really want to call him on it at the moment.

"It's okay," House said, and he closed his eyes as Wilson leaned over him. "It's good."

"Good." Wilson's breath was warm on his face, and it smelled faintly of ginger and garlic and beer – not bad, though, and when Wilson kissed him House let him, brought one hand up and curved it around the nape of Wilson's neck and opened his mouth. Wilson's hand grasped his cock again and stroked, and House slid his other hand between them, seeking – that: Wilson's dick, stiff in the running shorts.

"Let me," House said. "I'll be too tired if we wait till afterward." He didn't open his eyes, but he felt Wilson's small smile against his lips, and his pause. House fumbled his hand into the other man's pants and squeezed, rewarded by a soft groan.

"Yeah," Wilson said, "there," and they worked each other silently after that, hitching breath and the bloom of heat between them, sweat slicking the places where their skin touched, all up and down their bodies. "Ah –" Wilson breathed; his hand gripped cruelly tight on House for a moment and then released as his cock thickened in House's hand and he came, body taut and straining forward. "Jesus," he said quietly, panting against House's cheek. "Thanks."

"Payback's a bitch," House said mildly; Wilson chuckled breathlessly and nodded, beginning to stroke again. It didn't take House long to catch up – he closed his eyes and listened to Wilson's easy inhale-exhale, the damp slap of his hand. He kept his muscles relaxed consciously and came with a low groan, warm wet spilling across his pelvis, sliding down his balls as he trembled and sucked in a shaky breath.

Neither man said anything for a few minutes; Wilson kept his hand where it was, sticky and close between House's thighs. After a while House yawned and pulled his own hand from inside Wilson's pants. "Thanks," he said. He stretched his legs, gauging things, and thought about getting up.

"Stay there," Wilson said, and crawled away, throwing back the comforter and sliding off the foot of the bed. House considered protesting for a split second and then relaxed. When Wilson came back he had a damp washcloth in one hand, and he was naked. House reached for the cloth but Wilson rolled his eyes. "Be still, for Chrissakes," he muttered, and cleaned House efficiently.

"Yes, dear," House said, squinting as Wilson pulled his boxers up and let the elastic snap into place. "Ouch."

"It can't all be sunshine and handjobs," Wilson said. The corner of his mouth quirked and he climbed back into the bed, throwing the washcloth toward the dark rectangle of the bathroom door before reclining with his hands behind his head, profile aimed at the ceiling.

"Just for that you lose your Wife of the Year title," House said.

There was a long pause, and House watched Wilson's face, wondering if he'd give anything away now. "I can live with that," was all Wilson said.

"How long you staying?" House said. He turned onto his side again and draped his leg across Wilson's thighs. "Don't move."

"I'm not moving," Wilson said. "I don't know. Until I can go home, I guess."

House nodded.

"...That all right?" Wilson turned his head, and House raised an eyebrow instead of shrugging.

"All right with me," he said. "You gotta start buying your own beer, though."

"Right up until she cleans out the bank account," Wilson said, and he sounded so tired that House lifted his hand; he almost reached over to touch Wilson's arm, but changed the movement at the last minute and tucked his hand between their bodies, instead.

"You'll have to start winning your bets," House said. He kept his voice kind... he thought. He couldn't always tell; luckily he was pretty sure Wilson would get it either way.

 

~ _end_ ~


End file.
